November 6, 2012 § Leave a comment
I lapse. I turn to fancy. But Fancy looks like Herself. She’s become the face of what I want, little more, though the face still plucks and twangs. No indignation, little embarrassment or shame, but more than enough regret. And those get smaller. Hope is the last thing to go. It can hang around for as long as it wants. It feels good. I don’t have to take it seriously. Hope can stay. It doesn’t have to be for Herself, but when the right one of her comes along, I want to be receptive. Bitterness wears thin, is dispiriting. What’s the point? Who’s to blame, anymore? I’ll take it but don’t nail me up with it: I am no longer that person. Not all of it, anyway. I’ll always be some of it. I don’t want perfection; I want my perfection, the kind with an occasional mistake for the sakes of humility and education.
October 26, 2012 § Leave a comment
There is comfort in not caring about what I can do nothing to change, affect or effect, as long as I’m not just giving up. Bitterness is the shell of giving up, the indifference, purgatory; acceptance the truth, if not exactly the heaven. Foreground and background transpose: Importance rack-focuses. The shift is motivated by both fear and weariness: I fear what people think of me for belaboring my emotions over a relationship that never was; and I am weary of caring about it. So though I do, still, think of Herself, I let no one know. Keeping it to myself will make it unreal even to me one day. The woman I wanted her to be will be a woman unto herself, a fictional character I can understand. But as complete as she may become, she will only be so as a construct of my imagination; however nuanced her psychology or complex her emotions, she is yet not three-dimensional and never can be. She can’t be touched.
August 21, 2012 § Leave a comment
“…Like that!” still rings in my ears. Herself did not like being the co-star of my fantasies (or the target of my tirades). Or letting the world read them. “I don’t like you writing about me…like that!” and I knew what a fool I’d been–a child in a room of adults, playing by the only rules I knew, and alone. It had not been a game to anyone but me. I am not ashamed of the fantasies. It calmed me to imagine us on her sofa in pajamas, her leaning back on my chest, watching British sitcoms. Was that enough to have offended her? or did it take my mind’s hands gliding ove her body to embarrass and enrage her? How real does a fantasy have to appear to someone before it’s real enough to be offensible? But these don’t seem important questions. Herself didn’t need a reason to be offended, and I didn’t need to know where the line was to keep from crossing it. The times I did so I did brazenly. But the line I crossed with the flowers was invisible to me, not painted by a code of ethics in the recognizable hues of danger long before I’d reached it to consider crossing it, but striped behind me as I stared into the dark blue eyes of angry disdain pushing me backwards over it.
May 25, 2012 § 3 Comments
Fantasy keeps me warm, and the better I can imagine it the warmer I get. My imagination is fine, but I’m not feeding it enough reality; it has to fall back on old fodder, the bitter and the sweet. A spoonful of sugar gets it down: It’s all about serving a better attitude to the memories, which are all fantasies relative to many other relativities. Herself is the star of every show I’ve put on. The fantasies are private now, but I published them long ago. They are still good. Better. Nicer. More appreciative. (More humble?) I am redefining “living in the past”: It’s pushing me forward. She is on my mind because I want her to be. She is a product of it, or nearly so. She’s not yet a fiction, but she still works well in a fantasy. She said,“I don’t like you writing about me–like that.” Now I will respect it, if with a great deal of temptation to do otherwise. She can keep me warm in private. No one else has to know.
April 10, 2012 § 2 Comments
Who my age can I possibly impress? and how? We’ve all been through the relationship wringer. We all have our laundry lists. We’ve heard the lines, seen the tricks. There’s nothing left but being yourself or giving up. I never had a line, never had a trick. My success, though meager, was, at least relatively, honest. Hardly the success I needed, though. Now, I’m tired of anything but honesty, which is hard to find, hard to deliver. I see the guards people put up, recognize many as my own, and I let them have them. What is it worth to try to penetrate where you’ve been sternly told not to go? Nothing, I’ve found out. And the jungle gets thicker as you behave and wait for the invitation that will never come. Who ventures from their own jungle? Who machetes a clear path from their heart to another? Who’s to trust with such a clear guide? By now we know what we don’t want, but what does that leave us? We exclude the faults, one by one, until we’ve distilled the perfect, and perfectly unattainable, person. And there you are: Alone as it gets. Perfection isn’t a goal, it’s a death sentence, a resignation to fantasy as the best reality you can muster. Go ahead–you live that. I still have too much hope.